


Caught In The Middle

by CatherinePugh



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-14
Updated: 2013-12-14
Packaged: 2018-01-04 15:33:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1082715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatherinePugh/pseuds/CatherinePugh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock must stay with Molly for a week upon his return to London, but things have changed drastically for Molly since Sherlock's faked suicide.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Caught In The Middle

It had been a particularly brutal shift. Three autopsies in a row. Three hearts weighed, stomach contents analysed, three livers dissected. None of the deceased had died of anything particularly interesting – heart attack, stroke, alcohol poisoning – but those long hours on my feet were really weighing in by 9 PM. I was looking forward to a night on the settee with them propped up. I just needed a night to relax.

Nothing exciting like the young man who had been wheeled in a couple of days before. Someone named Adair. I rather enjoyed doing his autopsy – it seems he had been shot from behind. I didn’t know the circumstances of his situation, but working with ballistics had been interesting. No. Ho-hum, natural causes and a heavy drinker. 

I did remember thinking, as I made that first Y-incision, that Sherlock would have found that case particularly interesting. 

I was fetching my clothes in my locker when I suddenly realised someone else had entered the room, behind me. I caught a glimpse of the person in my mirror and turned around, expecting to see Tom, but to my utter disbelief, it was him.

“Molly.” 

“Sherlock!” 

I was so startled I tripped over my own foot and sent myself toppling to the floor. Graceful. 

He stepped toward me, gently lifted me from the floor, and wrapped me in his arms without saying a single further word. I wrapped my arms tightly around him and, for eight blissful seconds, I was in pure heaven. I drank in his presence: the feeling of his heart pounding against my cheek, the scratchiness of his tweed coat. Every texture, scent, sound. I broke the embrace first, afraid he would beat me to it. 

As his eyes met mine, all of a sudden, I felt a rage burst through me, uncontrollable, powerful. I stepped back as it overpowered me. The months of not knowing, the constant drone of worry in the back of my mind, the burden on my shoulders. Embarrassment for my outburst of crying.

I couldn’t stop myself from my next action.

“You bastard!” I slapped him in the face. The sting of my palm against his skin felt no further satisfaction, and the confused look that followed only made me cry more. Big, ugly crying, fat tears rolling down my face. “Not a single word from you all this time? I thought you were DEAD. Really, truly dead. You have no idea how these last two years have been, keeping your goddamn secret!”

Two years ago, I risked everything for him. I faked his death certificate, I arranged for his escape, and I had been whisked to some bizarre abandoned warehouse by his creepy brother for a “briefing” – let’s call it a threat, really – about keeping silent. I had to sit back and watch my friend’s entire life disappear. Attend his funeral. Take his skull and his violin. And oh, the hours of comforting Mrs Hudson and John – John was the worst. He would just stare ahead in silence as I tried making him biscuits to cheer him up. And I’d been stoic through it all, putting aside my own emotions and worry to keep strong for them. “Poor Molly, she was so in love with Sherlock,” I overheard Mrs Hudson say to Mrs Turner one day. 

I was. Once. But now I was going out with Tom, a perfectly respectable barrister who was just as boring and a homebody as me, and strangely alright with my profession, so far.  
A man who looked nearly identical to Sherlock, I supposed. Ah well. Good enough. I was never the girl with any kind of confidence, or any kind of stunning beauty, but Tom seemed like the sensible consolation prize for Sherlock Holmes.  
And now that I’d been settling in nicely with a Sherlock facsimile, the real thing was being beaten to a pulp and just standing there, just taking it like a punching bag.

“Molly – “ he said once more, his voice shaky. “I did. Send you word. Once a month.”

“What do you mean?”

I suddenly snapped back to my senses and tried to regain control of my breathing. Sherlock took a hankerchief from his pocket and gently dabbed the tears off my cheek. My slap had hurt him, I could see. His eyes were watering. I apologised profusely, but he did not respond to that. He simply asked,

“You mean to tell me, Mycroft hasn’t kept you informed?” 

Suddenly, he snatched the hankerchief up in his grip, and whirled around in a rage, pacing back and forth like a caged animal. He spat out his circumstances in a near-stream of consciousness.

“I’ve been traveling, tracking down Moriarty’s web. You know about Florence. After that I went to Tibet and stayed at a monastery. Converted to Buddhism. After that, I went to Norway and worked in a shipyard. I was in Iran briefly, then went to Khartoum, and then I was in France for a while doing chemical research on coal tar derivatives. I’ve found some very interesting things, by the way – but really, I’m back because I’m investigating the Adair murder.”

“Adair! Why, I just…” I tried to get my bearings. Sherlock walked toward me once again, locking his eyes with mine. They were full of…sympathy?

“Molly, you were supposed to know where I was. I specifically asked Mycroft to keep you informed. I’m FURIOUS with that bastard.” He gripped my shoulders. “I don’t know why he did it, but I can’t begin to express how sorry I am. I suppose I deserve this,” he said, rubbing his cheek.

“I did it for maximum security,” a smug voice responded, almost on cue, from the doorway. Mycroft Holmes stepped into the locker room, nodded at me, and placidly sat upon the bench. “Can’t be too careful these days, dear brother.”

“It’s…it’s alright,” I replied, suddenly feeling a twinkle of power. “I managed.”

“She did, indeed,” Mycroft beamed at me. “It’s remarkable, what Miss Hooper –“

“DOCTOR Hooper,” Sherlock snapped.

“…Miss Hooper has done for you,” Mycroft continued. “I’d say you owe her a great deal. …Remember. I. O. U.”

“I remember,” I interjected. “Sherlock was muttering it the afternoon before all of this.”

“Excellent memory, Miss Hooper,” Mycroft beamed. 

“My name is Molly.” I slammed my locker door shut. 

“Molly,” Mycroft replied, taken aback at my forwardness. I felt the anger rising again. I never cared for Sherlock’s brother.

“Both of you are so bloody formal. No wonder I’ve been reduced to a quivering mouse when either of you are around. I’ve been through hell and back for you, Sherlock, and you –“ I got in Mycroft’s face – “you are the most despicable of them all.”

Mycroft Holmes had clearly never been spoken to in such a way in his life, considering his posturing. He stood up slowly, and nodded at me.

“I did what was necessary. Molly, Sherlock must stay with you for the next week. It is unsafe to register him in lodgings or keep him at the Palace.”

“Stop ordering me…”

“Molly, this situation is a highly serious matter, and you may consider this a direct order from the British Government rather than from me. Your refusal can and will be considered treason.”

I looked at Sherlock. He nodded in agreement.

I had no idea how to explain this to Tom. Fortunately, Mycroft was way ahead of me on this. 

“You will tell Tom that you have to break off your weekly cinema date because your brother is in town.”

“Tom? Who’s Tom?” Sherlock spat out, glaring at me suddenly. “Another one of your silly boyfriends?”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” I said, airily. “Trouble is, Tom knows I don’t have a brother.”

“…Then you will invent a reason why you haven’t told him, and you will lie low for the next week at least,” Mycroft replied, clearly enjoying watching his brother wrestle with the idea that I might have found someone. It was curious, now that I thought about it. Why would that even bother Sherlock? He’d always been such a bossy git about me going out with anyone. 

“I will arrange for you to take a brief leave of absence from St. Bart’s. A cab will be by with the number 322 at precisely quarter to ten to take you both back to your flat. Behave yourself, Dear Brother. I know it’s been a few years since you’ve been in the company of a…female.” 

I bristled, memories of a nude woman on my slab at Christmas welling up in my brain. This did not escape Mycroft. He turned toward Sherlock.

“…Speaking of, Mummy misses you dreadfully. Don’t you worry, Miss Hooper, my brother is still as pure as the driven snow he used to snort. Maybe during your quarantine, you two can find something to…occupy your time.”

Sherlock threw a book toward Mycroft as he glided the door. 

“Well, then, looks like we’re flatmates,” I attempted, trying to lighten the mood.

Sherlock scowled.

“Well, it’s not like I particularly want you nosing around my things, deducing everything I own and what I’ve done,” I continued, weakly.

“I already know what you’ve done in the past two days,” he retorted. “With TOM. It’s as plain as the nose on your face.”

PISS OFF, I thought. 

“Well, no use in reminding me. I’ve a perfectly good memory,” I replied, trying to sound sassy. It didn’t work.  
I was met with silence as I gathered up my bag and opened the door. Sherlock followed me down the hallway. Suddenly I stopped, and took his hand in mine. 

“I’m sorry I slapped you,” I said. “I didn’t get a chance to apologise before. You must be exhausted. Have you seen John yet?”

He shook his head. “I know about Mary Morstan and Baker Street. Thank you for guarding my things. I…I’m grateful to you.”

I smiled when I heard those coveted words, but I honestly didn’t want his gratitude. I just wanted a calm night.

“Things have changed a bit since you were last there,” I replied. 

“Is there anything to eat at home? I just realised I’m utterly famished,” he replied, squeezing my hand. I nodded, chuckling a bit at the funny stories John had told me about Sherlock’s eating habits. How he wouldn’t eat for days when on a case, then would suddenly stuff himself silly, like a snake. 

Home. Now, that was a funny word. I always considered it home, as well. Not like my old flat in Croydon. What a wretched arrangement that was. I suppose I had some gratitude to Mycroft, in that regard.

Two years ago, Mycroft Holmes had arranged everything, and instructed me to get as much information about his daily habits from John so when (if) the time came, I would be prepared. I played the role of the devoted mourner quite easily (I was very good in plays). And it turned out, I really liked it there.

“Right, then, Sherlock. Let’s go home.” We stepped in the cab waiting for us.

“221 Baker Street, please,” I said to the cabbie.

 

-o0o-

The old sitting room hadn’t changed much, although I did keep things tidy. I remembered John mentioning Sherlock’s eccentric penchant for keeping track of time by dust, so I didn’t ever clean his own desk, but I tidied everything else. I now occupied John’s old room upstairs, and had moved a few of my things to the general living area of the flat, but I hadn’t much anyway. Having always been fond of Victorian-style architecture, Baker Street was heaven to me. Nice neighbourhood, a café downstairs, the sweetest landlady. I put the kettle on and made us some tea, then flopped down to text Tom.

 

Have to cancel this weekend. – Mx

Sherlock was presently raiding my food, fixing himself something to eat. I was amused watching him putter around the kitchen. It was not unlike his puttering around the lab, but this time he was shoving bread and ham and cheese in his mouth as if he had never tasted food in his life. 

My phone chimed in response two minutes later.

Do you want me to come over and bring you some soup? - Tx

Dammit. Why was he so good to me? I typed and retyped a response as quickly as I could, to not arouse suspicion.

No need, thank you xxx 

Oh, I see. I was hoping to see you tonight. I made reservations. – Tx

I’m disappointed, too. Bad cough. Could be contagious. - Mx

I couldn’t honestly think of anything else. I felt a sinking in the pit of my stomach as I hit Send. I knew Tom wasn’t buying the excuse, but I hoped it was enough to keep him from snooping around the flat and seeing Sherlock…good lord, was that man eating a THIRD SARNIE? 

Tom was calling me.

“Hullo Tom.” I faked a cough for effect.

“Hullo kitten. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, just a bit…ehm, under the weather,” I replied, making myself hoarse. Sherlock gave me a rather mocking thumbs-up.

“Molly, we’re out of mayonnaise,” he said, coming into the room, his mouth puffing out with food. He looked a bit like a chipmunk.

“Who’s that?” asked Tom. Blast it, he overheard.

“Ehm, it’s my brother…Templeton. He’s here on a little visit.” Sherlock whirled around and nearly spat out the contents of his cheeks with laughter.

“What brother? You never mentioned a brother,” Tom said. “In fact, you told me expressly you were an only child.” I could sense the anger rising. 

“Wishful thinking on my part,” I replied. Sherlock was giving me the eye, and I felt a bit like punishing him at the moment. “…He’s always been a bit of a bully. Used to scare me behind walls and the like when we were kids. I think that’s because he was SPOTTY and listened to WHAM! all the time,” I added, glaring at Sherlock, who rolled his eyes.

“Alright, Kitten. You get your rest. I’ll be by tomorrow to check on you.” He hung up before I got the chance to answer. His voice was so sad. Dammit, Sherlock, I thought.  
I had an old film, Pygmalion, with Leslie Howard, that I’d been meaning to see. I popped it in the player, and Sherlock, inexplicably, flopped down next to me.

“John never watched old films,” he said. “I always preferred them.”

“I never thought you’d watch telly at all,” I replied.

“I rarely do. But I like old films.”

After guzzling down the remainder of my tea, I decided I might as well treat myself to a bottle of wine. Now that Sherlock was back, and I wouldn’t have to deal with his secret much longer with the general public, I felt strangely relaxed. A couple of drinks in me, later, and I was REALLY relaxed.

“May I?” Sherlock asked. 

“Grab a glass,” I replied. “It’s nice to have you. Here. I mean….”

Sherlock answered by pouring me another glass.

“You’re a rotten actress, you know. A gloriously talented pathologist, but a rotten actress. TEMPLETON? What kind of ridiculous name is that?”

“I’ve been just fine all the time you were away,” I replied, hitting him with a cushion. “You come back and I’m all flummoxed again.”

“Mmm,” he replied, steepling his fingers under his chin. “You aren’t as flummoxed as you think you are.” He handed me a blanket, his eyes still closed. “You look cold.”

“How did…never mind. You always know.”

We continued watching Pygmalion in companiable silence. Strangely, now that Sherlock wasn’t a starving animal, he was weirdly content. After I polished off the bottle, we joking a bit like we used to in the lab, and I no longer felt inhibited around him.

“You ARE bloody Henry Higgins,” I laughed, as the film ended and the opening screen came on.

“Guilty,” he conceded, reaching for a crisp out of the bag. “But maybe meaner. You have any other films? And please don’t say romantic comedies. I detest them.”

“As a matter of fact, so do I,” I laughed. “I know I look like the type who would love them, but they’re bloody depressing. I prefer a nice gory film or black comedy. Say, this?” Sherlock’s eyes brightened when I handed him Gremlins.

“You know, Molly Hooper, I think this will do just fine. Mycroft and I saw this at the cinema when I was five. The last time he babysat me, come to think of it. Nanny was ill.”

I had to laugh at the thought of eleven-year-old Mycroft hauling around a tiny Sherlock to that one. 

“Were you scared?” I laughed, remembering how terrified I had been, seeing it at such a young age.

“No, in fact, for a week afterwards I terrorized Nanny by making the little growly noises. I was so disappointed that eating after midnight couldn’t create mutant Sherlocks.” A deep rumble spewed forth, and I realised for the first time, he was laughing. A real, live belly laugh.

Suddenly I felt his eyes burning me. It made my heart pound, the way it did the day I saw him beating my dead co-worker with a riding crop. It had been a long time since I felt that burn. I never felt that smouldering heat with Tom. (We only did it a few times, and it wasn’t as good as I’d hoped. I won’t go into details, it’s impolite.)

“Molly, you’ve kept so many of my secrets.” Sherlock said suddenly, breaking my train of thought. “I want to share one with you.”

“What’s that?” I asked, nervously.

“I’ve thought of you a lot during my absence.”

“Oh,” I said, unsure of what that meant.

“I mean to say…” he persisted, “I haven’t gone a day in my absence wondering how I can possibly make this up to you.”

“Oh,” I replied, deflating inside, “No need. I did what I had to.”

“No, that’s not enough,” he murmured, coming forward. I felt like my heart was going to pound right out of my ribcage. I was sure he could feel it pulsating through my body. Whatever he was about to say, I couldn’t guess. My anxiety heightened. 

“I know,” he whispered.

“Know what?”

“How you feel.” I felt my face redden. Oh, this is what he was getting at. Bloody bastard.

“Stop making fun,” I said, feeling tears in my eyes. “Sherlock. I’m not going to pretend you don’t know I love you,” I began. “But…I would do it all over again, regardless of my feelings.”

“Molly,” he breathed, looking directly at me, his pupils dilating. “Why did you look for someone else?”

Suddenly I was furious. “Did you honestly think that I would spend the rest of my days pining over you, you son of a bitch?”

“Molly, I…”

“You repel me.”

“Please don’t say that,” he said, wild-eyed. “I don’t mean –“

“That’s just it, you never ‘mean,’ you heartless gobshite! You spout out a bunch of words without ever thinking about how they hurt people. I’m not your punching bag. I’m your friend. Sometimes I think about how nicely Jim from IT treated me. That’s right, the most dangerous man in London was kinder to me than the great fucking Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock, during this outburst, had turned around to sulk. Like a bloody child. Tears streaming down my cheeks, I grabbed his shoulder and whipped him around to face me.

I was not prepared to see him like that. Crying. Unpracticed, ugly, disgusting crying, from a grown man. 

“The one person he thought didn’t matter to me at all, ended up being the one who mattered most,” he said, reaching up to wipe my cheeks.

I was about to make a smart reply to relieve the tension in the air, when I saw in his face that for once, he was not lying.

“Sherlock…” I choked, suddenly realising the delicate enormity of the situation. “You love me.”

“Yes, Molly Hooper,” he whispered, gently pulling me down to him. My body tingled with a combination of heat and ice. I found it difficult to swallow.

“I deduced my condition the day you cheerfully told me I could have Mrs. Grainger’s lung,” he continued. “Why do you think I spent all my time in the lab?”

“I just thought you needed a stronger microscope.”

“I need you,” he whispered, huskily. “Molly Hooper.”

With those words, I leaned forward and closed the space between us. His lips were soft, shapely, and absolutely divine. I’d sold my soul to the devil, once and for all. And it was heaven.

Our kisses were exactly as I’d always dreamed: passionate, heated, and violent triggers toward the next blissful step. Vague memories of Tom’s clumsy earnestness faded away with each tongue swipe in my mouth, each article of clothing removed, each claw at my breast, each gasp of breath. The skin-on-skin contact was electrifying. We needed each other.

Suddenly we were one, and it was everything.

For years, I had dreamt of this moment between us, but the real thing was much more intense than my weak imagination could ever have concocted. He called my name over and over, sending shivers through my body, reminding me I was doing incredible things to him, that it was me, mousy Molly - not just anyone. He kissed me over and over again, holding my face in his hands. 

I’d never had such a connection to anyone in my life. For the first time in any of my personal history, we came beautifully together, still kissing each other madly as we came back to earth in a delicious pile of exhaustion. The Gremlins theme was still playing on repeat on the telly in the DVD opener, and I laughed at the sudden absurdity.

“What a soundtrack!” I laughed.

“If I’d known sex would be that delightful I would have attempted it sooner,” Sherlock mused, chuckling. 

“Come again? I mean…”

“That would be nice,” he laughed, stroking my hair. “I…I waited, too, Molly.”

“But I thought – the Woman? Your girlfriend…?“

“Never,” he replied. “I only wanted you. Oh, I have something else I want to give you.”

He lazily picked up his suit coat from the comfy chair, pulling out a small jewellery box. I just stared at him, blankly.

“Open it,” he insisted. 

It was a beautiful diamond ring with matching necklace. Art nouveau, from the looks of it. Certainly not one of those hideous modern halo rings.

“Whaaat?” I gasped.

“It’s a present. I want you to have it,” Sherlock said, with no glimmer of pretense. 

“I can’t –“

“Please,” he said, closing his eyes. “Molly. It’s only a small token of my gratitude for what you’ve done for me, but it’s something I want only you to have. I found it in an old shop. It…reminded me of you,” he said, unable to say much more.

It’s lovely,” I replied. “I will cherish it the rest of my life. Sherlock, you needn’t feel gratitude. I find it offensive, really.” 

“You people and your strange emotions,” he grumbled. He took the necklace out of the box and draped it over my neck, and then he gently placed the ring on my finger. They were all I wore in that moment, and Sherlock looked at me as if he were admiring a Greek statue.

“You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he said. “You are home and Baker Street is home and I finally belong somewhere.” He started rambling, but I didn’t mind one bit.

“Dearest Sherlock, please - never leave me again.”

“I will do my best to never need to, Molly Hooper.”

We cleaned up and dressed for bed and cuddled together on the settee. Sherlock fell asleep, with his head in my lap on a pillow. I stroked his curly hair as he snored quietly into my breast. I soon drifted off, the memories of the evening lulling me to the sweetest sleep.

 

 

-o0o-

 

I was rudely awakened by a thud some time later. The contents of a container of soup splattered on the living room floor, splashing Sherlock and me.

“I knew it. I had a sixth sense.”

“Tom!” I shouted, startling Sherlock awake. Bloody hell, he had a key. He’d brought me soup. 

The two men looked at each other.

“I can’t believe I almost fell for it,” Tom sneered, completely horrified by what he saw before him. “Brother. Funny, never saw you as the incest type.”

I felt my stomach drop in shame. Sherlock rose. “I…I’m sorry,” he stammered. 

“Sherlock Holmes, in the flesh. You have a type, don’t you, Molly? Well, stick with the original,” he said, tears springing to his eyes. “You know what I had planned this evening? I wanted to ask you to marry me tonight. I thought you and I would always be happy. What did I ever do to deserve this, Molly?” I ran down after him toward the door, sickened by the sight of him.

“I’m sorry,” I said. Me, reliable old Molly Hooper, cheating on her lovely sweet boyfriend with this Byronic arsehole. 

“Not as much as I am, for wasting a year with you.” He slammed the door and left me forever. I stomped upstairs to 221B, to find Sherlock standing in the middle of the room, rooted to the ground.

“Molly, I didn’t…I am sorry.” Sherlock seemed more flustered than I ever could. “You deserve better. I shouldn’t have done this.”

“I need to be alone for a little while, Sherlock.”

I went to the toilet and vomited, then staggered into my room and flung myself on the bed, too tired, emotionally drained and disgusted with my behaviour.

Tom was the first man who had ever been truly kind to me. The first man who ever truly wanted me for Molly Hooper, the silly little kitten-loving postmortem conductor. But deep down, I knew a life with Tom would involve a sacrifice I couldn’t make. He wanted children and a home with a hearth-fire and a cat and a dog, and I wanted only what I had worked so hard my whole adult life for: my career. 

 

I admit, for a moment, I considered begging him to come back, but quickly shut down the idea. The words, “always be happy,” were what sickened me most. The sweetest lie of them all. I saw my parents’ fairy-tale marriage come to a bleak end when my lovely father was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. I’d autopsied more tragedies than I cared to reflect upon. The idea of never-ending happiness seemed suddenly loathsome in its falseness. I preferred those rare moments of pure bliss, to the numbing sameness of comfortable certainty. I then realised that Sherlock and I had more in common than ever thought possible.

I dried my eyes and returned to the living room, finding Sherlock on his knees, cleaning up the splashed soup.

“Is everything alright?” I asked, as cheerfully as I could, “Professor Higgins?”

Sherlock dropped the wipe cloth and took me in his arms.

“Molly.”


End file.
